


Bogenstrich

by mywordsflyup



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three continents, three hot drinks and a whole lot of kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bogenstrich

That first night, she asks her if she wants to come in for coffee, her face so stoic that Angela almost doesn’t see the fear underneath. It’s a line, an invitation for something else, that she’s heard a hundred times in movies and a handful of times herself but coming from Fareeha, it tastes like something completely new. It’s all the more surprising when she makes a beeline for the kitchen as soon the door falls shut behind them.

 

“You might be the only person in the world who actually means it when she asks a girl inside for a cup of coffee,” Angela says, taking off her jacket and carefully hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair.

 

Fareeha pauses, one hand already on the cupboard door. “So you don’t want any?”

 

“I didn’t say that.” And then, when Fareeha doesn’t move, “I’d love some.”

 

Angela sits down at the table and watches Fareeha work. She dares to take a quick look around, not wanting to appear too nosy. She always assumed Fareeha’s apartment would be sparse, impersonal. A soldier’s place. But while it’s certainly clean and organized, there are bits and pieces of Fareeha’s life everywhere. A picture of Ana hangs on the wall, official and in uniform. But next to it, there's another one - a family snapshot with Ana laughing and Fareeha still little and in a summer dress. There are other pictures, Fareeha in and out of uniform with a group of men Angela doesn’t recognize. Her old team, she assumes.

 

“Sugar, right?” Fareeha asks suddenly and Angela looks up like she’s been caught doing something far more reprehensible than looking at pictures.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Your coffee. You like it sweet?”

 

Angela nods and gets up, partly to avoid the temptation of further snooping. Fareeha has a curious little pot on the stove into which she’s stirring coffee grounds and sugar. As the water heats up, the small room quickly fills with the smell of coffee. Angela steps closer to watch and Fareeha shoots her a sideways glance and a smile.

 

“I’ve had coffee like this before. In Istanbul”, Angela says. “But I’ve never seen anyone prepare it.”

 

“At least you’ll have nothing to compare it to,” Fareeha says and pulls two tiny cups from the cupboard over the sink. “I’ve been told my coffee is average at best.”

 

Angela nudges her with an elbow. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

 

“I have a friend back home whose coffee is so good it made his father-in-law cry once.” Her tone is dry but when she sees Angela raise an eyebrow the corner of her lips ticks up.

 

“I can shed a tear or two. If it’ll make you feel better.”

 

Fareeha laughs, a loud honest sound that catches Angela off-guard in the best possible way. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

 

For someone who’s used to pushing a button on a machine for her morning coffee, the whole process seems awfully cumbersome. But there’s something mesmerizing about watching Fareeha’s movements. How she peeks into the pot to determine the right moment to take it off the stove. And the way she bites her lower lip as she carefully pours the coffee into the cups.

 

She hands Angela the one with marginally more foam on top of it and watches her with an almost nervous expression on her face when she takes her first sip.

 

The coffee is hot and strong with a spice she doesn’t recognize, and it makes her heart beat impossibly fast. Almost as fast as it does when Fareeha finally takes the cup out of her hands and kisses her.

 

She tastes bitter and sweet, like coffee and sugar, and Angela doesn’t think she could ever possibly get enough of it.

 

* * *

  


“ _Heiße Schokolade_ ,” Angela repeats and does her best not to grin. She doesn’t want Fareeha to think she’s laughing at her.

 

It’s no use. Fareeha groans and lets herself fall back into the pillows. “I give up. You’re gorgeous but that language of yours…”

 

Angela laughs and presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, snuggling a little bit closer to her. “The language of poets and thinkers.”

 

“If that’s the case, I don’t want to hear their poems or their thoughts.”

 

Angela turns the kiss into a little bite, just sharp enough to make Fareeha hiss. “I’ll read you some Rilke someday. Perhaps that will change your mind.”

 

Fareeha rolls over to her side and snakes an arm around her waist. It’s nice, sharing the warmth of her body. Even under the blankets and in front of the fire, she can feel the chill coming in from outside. And she knows it’s even worse for Fareeha who’s still getting used to the snow of the Alps.

 

“You liked it though, didn’t you?” Angela asks after a while.

 

Fareeha runs her hand slowly up and down her spine. “The… hot chocolate? I did. It was very sweet.” She presses a kiss to her forehead and then one on the tip of her nose for good measure. “Like you.”

 

Angela blinks before she breaks out into laughter, pressing her face into the crook of Fareeha’s neck. “Oh, Schatz. That was _bad_.”  

 

“But you liked it though, didn’t you?” She can’t see her face but there’s a smile in her voice that makes Angela’s belly feel tight with happiness.

 

It’s an easy thing to flip Fareeha on her back and move to straddle her. For her, at least, it is. Fareeha looks up at her, her hair spread out like a halo around her head and her dark skin gleaming in the warm firelight. Angela runs her hand over her shoulders and her strong muscular arms like she’s seeing them for the first time.

 

“I did,” she says, her voice low. “I like everything you do. Even the cheesy parts.”

 

“That seems unlikely.”

 

“Hmm… The doubting not so much. But the rest…” She leans down and kisses her softly. “The rest I adore.”

 

* * *

  


They’re soaked through, clothes clinging to their skin in the most uncomfortable way, but Fareeha’s smile is bright enough to almost make her forget about all of it.

 

She kisses her in the hallway, pressing her up against the rough wall by the stairs. It’s dark, the shadows only interrupted from time to time when lightning flashes across the sky outside. The deep rumble of thunder above drowns out the noise of the city, but not the sound of Fareeha’s laugh, low and breathless in her ear.

 

It’s the Bangkok safehouse. The names on the leases of the neighboring apartments are all fakes, but right now Angela wouldn’t care if anyone saw them anyway. She’s cold except for all the places where she’s not - all the parts of her Fareeha’s touching. Her lips on her neck, one hand on her back and the other running along her thigh, hiking up her dress.

 

She gasps Fareeha’s name when she touches her, even just the brush of her fingers over her underwear is too much.

 

“Upstairs,” she says. “Lets’ - ah! Let’s take this upstairs.”

 

Fareeha nods but leans in to suck a bruise into the side of her neck before she lets her go. Angela gasps and shivers in her arms. She laughs when she pulls her up the stairs, so giddy she could have twirled the whole way. And after the door has finally closed behind them, Fareeha has her crying out her name again and again until she collapses on the bed, her thighs shaking and skin slick with sweat.

 

Her hair’s still wet from the rain, as is Fareeha’s when she crawls up to cover her body with hers and bury her face in the crook of her neck.

 

“You’re cold,” Angela says, draping her arms around her. “You’ll get sick.”

 

“As will you,” Fareeha mumbles, her voice muffled, and she places a lazy kiss on her shoulder.

 

Angela laughs quietly. “I believe you’ve warmed me up rather efficiently.” She can’t see Fareeha’s face but she can feel the breath of her laughter against her skin. “Give me a second to catch my breath and I’ll return the favor.”

 

Fareeha sighs and pushes herself up on her elbows. “Shower first.” She gives her a quick peck and moves to get up but Angela holds her back.

 

“Those don’t have to be mutually exclusive, you know?”

 

There’s something endlessly satisfying about the way Fareeha’s face lights up and even more about how she comes undone under her touch just a short while later, steam rising up in the shower around them and her barely muffled shouts echoing off the tiled walls.

 

They stay in the shower until the water runs cold and afterwards wrap themselves in fluffy white bathrobes they find in the bedroom closet. They smell like the little sacks of lavender that dangle from their hangers, stored away for long periods of time when no one lives here.

 

“I’m going to make some tea,” Fareeha says, brushing a damp strand of hair behind Angela’s ear. “Do you want some?”

 

Angela nods, rolling up the sleeves of her robe. “What kind?”

 

“Whatever the last person here deigned to leave behind.” Fareeha shrugs.

 

It turns out being rooibos and they have some fun trying to guess whose tea it used to be as they drink it, leaning against the kitchen counter. It has a strange aftertaste Angela doesn’t care for but she doesn’t really mind. There’s a sense of normalcy, as if the names on the doorbell were actually their own and as if she picked out these robes and these mugs and this tea herself, making a home that actually belonged to them.

 

Fareeha’s phone on the kitchen table buzzes and she put down her mug and picks up the phone without a second of hesitation. “The others will be here tomorrow morning,” she says, looking at the screen.

 

Angela would love to take the phone out of her hand and toss it out of the window. She doesn’t, of course, but for just one second she allows herself to think about it.

 

Fareeha puts it back on the table and looks up. “We still have tonight,” she says and Angela feels heat rising in her cheeks at how easy it is for Fareeha to read her.

 

“I know,” she says and steps closer to take Fareeha’s hand. “I’m not complaining.”

 

“Oh?” Fareeha says, her voice thick with amusement. “So you don’t like spending time with me alone?”

 

“Ah, don’t even start.” Angela swats at her but Fareeha catches her hand and pulls her in for a kiss. It’s soft, nothing more than a brush of Fareeha’s lips against hers, but Angela sighs and slides her arms around her waist. She smells like Angela smells: the same soap and the same shampoo and underneath that, the same faint hint of lavender.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Rainer Maria Rilke's poem "Liebes-Lied". 
> 
> You can also follow my [tumblr](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


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